The Allure of Bedhead
by Gecko Osco
Summary: He was wearing flannel, had hair sticking up, and was even drooling a little - but damn if England wasn't a pretty sight to wake up to in the morning.  USUK


Title: The Allure of Bedhead  
>Genre: humor, romance, smut<br>Pairings: USUK  
>Rating: M<br>Warnings: sex, though it's pretty mild, some language  
>Summary: He was wearing flannel, had hair sticking up, and was even drooling a little - but damn if England wasn't a pretty sight to wake up to in the morning.<br>Notes: This is my first entry for the Spring Fever fanworkathon at usxuk for the prompt: America really likes how messy and disheveled England is when they're waking up in the morning. I hope you all enjoy, I certainly did writing it!

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><p><em><strong>The Allure of Bedhead<strong>_

England had half of his face smashed against the side of a pillow and his mouth was open slightly as he slept. His body was curled at an odd angle that did not look comfortable and there was a small collection of what looked like drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. His hair was wild and even his eyebrows looked to be in disarray, the short hairs in the thick brows pointing different directions messily. No one in the right mind would think that England was a very attractive morning person—and yet here America was, staring at him in bed, heat flooding through his skin with every snore England made. And America wasn't even a super soppy romantic that thought his boyfriend looked beautiful doing any little thing, like eating porridge or flossing—but damn, if England messy and sleeping (and yes, even drooling) wasn't a pretty sight to wake up to in the morning.

America rolled onto his stomach and tucked his hands under his chin, a small, happy smile playing across his face when England gave a rather large snort and turned over so that America was staring at his back. He was wearing one of America's flannel shirts, an older one that was soft and warm and always found its way onto England's back whenever the older nation was over. It was ugly as fuck, all black and brown and a yucky blue color, and would normally do little to excite the imagination, but America liked it whenever England wore it. America usually liked it whenever England wore his clothes, but he _really_ liked it when he wore that awful flannel shirt in bed. He let out a long breath and scooted closer so that he was spooning directly behind England, one arm wrapping around his torso and splaying across his stomach. The other arm was tucked against England back and its hand was tugging down the collar of the shirt.

America pressed his nose to the small patch of skin just below the hairline and rested his lips against the spot, not really kissing him because that would wake him up and America rarely ever woke up before England. He inhaled England's scent, which never failed to have at least a hint of tea mixed in with everything else, and smiled at how well it mingled with the musty smell of the flannel. England shifted and mumbled again, one of his feet tangling in between America's ankles as he turned back over, forcing America to adjust his hold as he moved. America tucked England's head under his chin and stroked down his back gently in time with his breathing; he rested his cheek against the messy hair and wondered how England kept it so soft when it looked so frazzled all the time.

England didn't really look younger when he slept and he didn't look more vulnerable or sweeter or whatever—he just looked peaceful and messy. Maybe America liked how he looked in the morning because of how prim and proper he always was the rest of the time; it wasn't like England really wasn't prim and proper, but it was just nice, really nice, to see something different. England shifted again and America could almost feel the sleep starting to let go of its hold over the older nation, could almost feel the soft blinking of England waking up against his neck even though his eyelashes would have had to be freakishly long to _actually_ touch his neck. America moved back so he could look at England's face, not quite touching their foreheads together.

"'Merica?" England's voice was scratchy and soft; his eyes were still mostly shut.

"Mmhmm?"

"Are you watching me sleep?"

America grinned and leaned in the rest of the way so he could press a kiss to the bridge of England's nose. "Maybe. Are you still sleeping?"

England blinked a glare his way in the soft light of the morning and America chuckled softly. "Now I'm not."

"Well then I can't be staring at you while you're sleeping!" England huffed and buried his face back in the pillow, a low grumble echoing from him; his words were unintelligible. America watched has he eventually peeled himself away from the pillow, eyes bleary and hair sticking up every which way; the flannel shirt was bunched up around his body unflatteringly, looking lumpy and bulgy on him. He rubbed the sleep gunk out of his eyes and yawned, arching his tangled eyebrows when he noticed that America was staring at him.

"Yes? Have I got something stuck on my face?" England looked vaguely amused and sleepy, bending his arms behind him and stretching with a small grunt.

"Nah, just admiring the view." America grinned and England threw him a skeptical look before he rubbed at his hair and moved to get out of bed. He was only wearing boxers on the bottom half, the sleeves of the flannel hung long and nearly covered past his fingers—America felt another wave of arousal rush through him as he watched England shuffle into the bathroom. He really needed to start waking up earlier, if this was the reward he got; he decided that as he rolled himself out of bed and headed downstairs, not bothering to put on a shirt, to start up some coffee for him and tea for England.

England may have thought he was joking when he said he was admiring the view, but America had meant every word of it—England looked damn good in the morning all rumpled and mussed. America grinned and whistled as he entered the kitchen of his Virginia home, pulling out the grounds and nasty tea bags he kept for England when he visited. He grabbed some eggs and bacon out of the fridge as well so he could start on breakfast for them, dancing a little as he turned on the stovetop and got things going. He was just starting to filter the grounds for his coffee when he heard steps on the stairs and England came into view, looking a bit more alert but still plenty scruffy in his sleep clothes. America grinned in between whistling and slid the tea bags down to England, who was staring at him with a bemused expression as he fished out one of his teacups from the cupboard.

"Well you're disgustingly awake." America grinned and finished setting up his coffee machine.

"It's been a good morning."

"Oh?" England's eyebrows weren't so wild anymore and he raised one in America's direction. He pushed up the sleeves of the flannel shirt as he fished out a tea bag and began steeping it in hot water from the kettle America had started for him. "And here I was thinking that you did nothing but laze about in bed and disturbed others who were trying to sleep. Of course you _would_ consider that a productive morning I suppose."

"No, no, nothing productive about it, it was just _good_! Calling it productive makes it sound so boring and less awesome than lazing around, getting to wake up with you all sleeping and cute!" America poured himself a mug of coffee and added liberal amounts of sugar to it, but nothing else. He took a sip, grinned at England's dumbfounded expression, and flipped the bacon which had begun to sizzle.

"I beg your pardon, but _cute_? Don't you think that's a bit of a childish endearment to call a grown man?"

"Nope, because you were being cute. Don't worry, it was like guy-cute, not girly-cute or whatever." England did not look appeased by America's reassurances, but he wasn't smacking him yet so America figured he was at least a little bit flattered by the words. He moved from the bacon to the eggs (cooking them scrambled was the best way to have eggs in his opinion) and picked back up his cheerful whistle. England huffed and took a sip of his tea, not moving from his spot on the counter, arms crossed as he fixed America with a glare.

"Well, all the same, I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that term; it's more along the lines of something one would say to a child, not their partner." America chuckled and put the spatula down, reducing the heat on the stove to low so he could give England his full attention.

"So, if I can't call you cute, even if you totally are being cute, can I still say that you're being sexy? Or is that taboo? That would be totally lame because I thought you were really sexy this morning too." America grinned mischievously at the reddish tint England's cheeks flushed with and took another gulp of his coffee.

England spluttered for a few moments before he found his words. "Cute and sexy are two completely different descriptive adjectives, thank you very much! Not wanting to be called cute does not translate into—well, I certainly have no qualms with you referring to me as sexy."

England's voice had trailed off as he said the last part of his sentence, and he crossed his arms tighter and looked down at his feet. America loved how stuffy and embarrassed England could get when he was saying something silly, like how he liked being called sexy but not cute, but still was able to say the absolute filthiest things when they were going at it in bed without a trace of shyness. It was adorable—but after cute got vetoed he was sure trying to call England adorable would end up with something getting thrown at him. It must have shown on his face though because then England was huffing more and shoved at America's shoulder in annoyance, brushing the soft flannel against America's skin.

"You are being an obnoxious twat this morning, more so than usual! Anyways, it's not as if you could have really thought I was an attractive sight this morning—jet lag and lack of sleep do monstrous things to a person, nation or not."

"That's where you're totally wrong, sweetheart." America let the arousal that had been humming through him all morning drip into his voice as he crowded close to England, not really touching him, but standing so close that it was almost silly not to be. "Because I was telling the truth—you are really, _really_ sexy in the morning; along with being the 'C' word."

England stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed and expression suspicious. "You're taking the piss out of me aren't you?"

America shook his head and crowded closer, settling his hands on either side of England's body against the counter. "Not even a little bit."

England did not look convinced and took another sip of his tea, despite the limited space he had between his and America's chests. "So, you're telling me that looking an absolute wreck, having an unshowered and unshaven appearance, and wearing what has to be the ugliest shirt known to man is _attractive_ to you in some fashion?"

America nodded, ignoring the whole fact that England was insulting the flannel shirt he always _had_ to wear when he was over, and let his eyes rove over England's rumpled appearance again, showing the bright arousal in he felt to the older nation when he met the green eyes. The suspicion began to melt away and was replaced with surprise, near disbelief, and warm affection which America drank in greedily. He reached out and took the teacup from England's hands, setting it to the side and away from the counter surface in their general vicinity. "Yeah, yeah I do. You look all—all _ruffled_ and stuff and it's sexy as hell."

England did nothing but blink in response before he smiled slowly, letting it takes its time crawling across his expression in a way that reminded America of a jungle cat or, or a shark, or something predatory like that. He was probably getting ready to call America a sap, or a hopeless romantic, or make some kind of comment on how he must be horny if he really found England sexy first thing in the morning after a rough few days—but America didn't give him the chance to do any of that. He leaned in fast and kissed England while his hands went to grab at the small of his back and tangle in his messy hair, pushing him back into the countertop and loving the small 'oof' that was pushed out of him. England reached up and latched onto the back of his neck as he returned the kiss, his head tilting to the side so they could fit their lips, tongues, and sounds together with a bit more fluidity.

America didn't think he'd ever get tired or bored with kissing England, even though they were nations and had centuries ahead of them as opposed to just a few decades. They'd only been together since the Reagan Administration and were kinda in the 'honeymoon' stage, according to France and Canada, but America didn't think it would matter whether they were together for another decade or the next century—he would never tire of kissing England. America knew they'd keep finding new things to excite each other, no matter how long they stayed together—look at the whole bedhead thing! They'd been together for almost a decade and America was just now discovering how much he liked it when England was a mess and wearing his flannel shirts. That might've implied that he wasn't the most observant of nations, but America viewed it as a positive thing. He got to discover all the things he loved about England nice and slow, which was so much better because this way he got to savor what he discovered.

Every little noise or hum that England released spurred him to push closer and kiss back harder, faster, not really caring for finesse if being sloppy invoked the wet, hot heat that pooled in his stomach. America thought England may have muttered half-heartedly about burning the food, but as soon as he pressed a knee in between England's legs and rolled his hips just so, any and all protests stopped. Instead, England gasped out America's name and dug his nails into his shoulders, pressing warm, heated kisses into America's neck as their erections brushed against each other. If that wasn't a sign to keep going and forget about the damn food, America didn't know what was.

America let out a low groan when he felt England nip at his neck, soothing the sure-to-be-noticeable mark over with his tongue, and rolled his hips harder, hard enough to raise England off his feet and settle on the counter. America tilted up to kiss England again and worked off the buttons of the flannel shirt so that it fell open and exposed the older nation's chest. They shifted a bit to find a comfortable enough position on the counter, England grumbling all the while that he was going to end up with a bruised tailbone and it would all be America's fault—America just grinned in response; England wasn't grumbling for them to stop and move to a couch or bed, after all. Eventually, they found a spot that fit perfectly; America wrapped one arm around England's waist and kept him balanced at the small of his back while the other hand braced against the counter. England had his legs wrapped around America's waist, his heels digging into the swell of America's backside, and was sitting on the edge of the counter, one arm wrapped into America's hair while the other helped balance on the counter.

America couldn't really kiss him on the lips in their position, but it was the perfect angle for each thrust of their hips and he could still press his mouth up and down England's chest, the faint scent from the flannel still mingling with England in his nose. He felt another spike of desire spark through him as met England's hips again and again, and pressed his groans into England's skin, his grip on the small of his back tightening with every thrust. He'd been aroused before but now he was so hard it was nearly painful and every jerk, every spasm, and every sharp movement felt almost too good—England's gasps were getting breathy and erratic so America knew he felt the same. They lost their steady rhythm as they crept closer and closer to the edge, America pushing closer in time with England's tugs and the voiceless 'oh fucks' America knew he was mouthing. Things started to go hazy and the world narrowed down to just the two of them and America knew he was almost there, trying his best to hold back until England came first, when the faint smell of burning food crept past them.

"Am-America th-oh bloody _fuck_-the smoke alarm is-is going to—"

"I-I don't give a shit ah-about the stupid food!" America thrust up hard, the fabric separating him and England damp and hot between them. "Or-or the sm-_Jesus-_smoke alarm!"

Before he really noticed it, England was arching up and coming with choking sort of exhale that sounded like a sob and America tumbled down after him, his own orgasm nearly ripping through him a few seconds later. He was sure they'd had sex enough times that this probably wasn't the 'best they'd ever had' but it _had_ to be in the Top Five—his damn legs were jelly for crying out loud! They both stayed tangled around each other as they caught their breaths and came down back to earth, letting the aftershocks run their course before either tried moving; America rested his head against England's chest and hummed happily when he felt tired fingers comb through his sweaty hair. Damn, he felt good, no better than good, he felt fucking awesome and it was only nine in the morning—it was going to be a really good day.

When his legs didn't feel quite so wobbly, America leaned back up and flashed a bright, happy grin at England; it was returned with a somewhat sleepy one and the strong legs that had gripped him so tightly before gently fell away. England grimaced as America helped him slide off the counter and settle his feet back on the ground, one hand rubbing at his tailbone. He flicked an annoyed, 'I told you so' look at America before he surveyed the state of their clothes—the flannel shirt was slipping off of one shoulder. His hair was, if possible, even messier than it had been that morning, his skin was flushed and slightly damp, and his eyes were bright—he was the most beautiful damn thing America had ever seen. Not that he'd say that that, not out loud anyway, not if he wanted his shins (or pride) in tact.

"God, we're a mess." England picked at his wet boxers distastefully before looking past America's shoulder and at the stovetop. "And breakfast's utterly ruined."

America followed the glance, took in the burned eggs and bacon, and shrugged with a grin. "Whatever, it's just food and _that_ was totally worth it. And hey, now we can go to McDonalds!"

England scrunched up his nose and frowned. "Oh joy."

America chuckled and shoved at England's shoulder playfully before he waddled over and turned off the stove completely, making a face at the way his sweatpants stuck to his skin uncomfortably. First things first though, a shower would need to come before glorious Mickey Ds; that and fresh underwear. He dumped the ruined food into the sink and turned to see if England wanted to share a shower with him. England had moved though, and arms wrapped around America's waist before he could turn around, soft lips pressing a smile into his spine.

"So…bedhead and flannel, hmm?" America grinned and shrugged, turning his neck to try and catch England's eye.

"I guess—what can I say, you make it look really good, England!"

England laughed softly, which America enjoyed because while England may smile, smirk, and chuckle often, he didn't laugh all that much, not the soft, gentle and affectionate laugh he was giving America now at least. America liked to think that he'd get hear that laugh more often the longer they were together, but for now it was still a rare treat to hear it. "I'll keep that in mind you daft, wonderful fool."

America swiveled so he was facing England and swooped down to give him a sound kiss on the lips, taking his hands in his own when he broke away. "You really should. Now, shower, please? Then food because I'm really hungry and it's kind of your fault I was so distracted and couldn't keep my hands off you long enough to make breakfast!"

England smirked and pinched America's arm, hard, in retaliation but did not resist America's gentle pulling. He followed America back up the stairs and towards the shower, a soft smile that went wonderfully with the laugh from before playing across his face. And when he kissed America again under the hot spray, his hair wet and plastered against part of his head, smelling like strawberries from his shampoo, looking just as attractive as it had all wild that morning, America knew for sure the rest of the day was going to be _perfect_.

_Finis_

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